


Switch and Change

by Cylin



Series: Switch and Change [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Body Worship, Light BDSM, M/M, PWP, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cylin/pseuds/Cylin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is in charge...Charles loves his back...(Charles's POV)</p><p>(Part one of the Switch and Change Series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switch and Change

 

He has a tell. A tell when he wants Erik to take care of him.

Erik. This magnificent man, who will act so cold and aloof just for him, even when Charles knows that he is all fire and turmoil, like a metallurgic melting pot.

But for him he will reign all that in, become cold and hard and just take care of Charles.

And Charles has a tell when he wants that, when he _needs_ that.

Charles cannot look Erik in the eyes. He can always otherwise and he does, cocky and self-assured and compassionate, but not when he tells Erik what he wants without words. He just stands there, in front of Erik seemingly relaxed, but his head is slightly bowed and he contemplates the pattern of the fine Persian rug under his feet, not moving and waiting.

Sometimes he has to wait long, because Erik makes him work for his affection, for his care, like Charles wants him to, like Charles craves with all the fibres of his being.

He is standing on a Persian rug now, the big one in the library, where they play chess – and other games. Like this one.

 _Take care of me Erik_ , Charles’s posture implies, _make me do the things I want to do_.

And Erik makes him wait, makes him wait for a good half hour, just reading his book, his hands relaxed, his turning of the pages precise and intent.

It’s poetry this time. Rilke.

Charles thinks of Rilke’s _Panther_ , thinks about the dance of forces around a centre, about control and his whole body feels aquiver with nervous tension. _Down through the limbs’ intensive stillness flutter…_

Erik suddenly closes his book with a snap and an annoyed huff, muttering with his wonderfully cool voice, “Well, if you must, Charles.”

Charles shudders, but doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t move either.

Erik sighs like this is a hardship for him and maybe it is, but he does it for him. For Charles. Erik will take care of him.

Erik gets up from his comfortable armchair and goes to the piano in the corner, grabbing the stool from in front of it and sets it down in front of Charles.

Charles feels a hot flush rise form his lower back upwards and from the back of his neck downwards, racing to meet in the middle of his back, spreading to his belly and groin. He can feel his calves quiver in anticipation, his hands growing cold with nervous tension. He tries to keep his breathing even, but he knows Erik can hear how the air is pressed through his nostrils in huffing pants.

Erik stands in front of the stool, his back turned towards Charles and carelessly pulls his turtleneck over his head, neatly folding it onto the armchair close-by.

It seems to take him ages, he is so precise and particular and Charles waits, waits for him to finally be finished to make him do what he needs. His cock strains against the seam of his trousers and he has to work hard to suppress a shudder as the sensitive skin rubs against fine fabric.

Erik finally sits down on the stool, his naked back facing Charles and takes up his book again, waving his hand in a well-get-on-with-it gesture, opening the book of poetry to the exact page he has closed it on, continuing to read, unfazed.

Charles has to suppress a moan and make his knees lock as they give way for a moment. Heat and tension is spreading to his cock as he looks at the expanse of naked skin, wrapping over muscle, the shifts of bones and sinew as Erik calmly turns another page.

This magnificent back.

Charles sinks to his knees with a soft moan – he cannot help it - closing his eyes for a moment in surrender, his breath hitching quietly. He is so hard now it borders on painful. But he will not touch himself, Erik will take care of him. He does it so well.

Charles’s breathing is quick and uneven. He has to calm himself. So he lets his head drop slowly forwards against the curve of Erik’s spine. His breath hitches and is still too fast, but it calms a little, as his forehead rests against the muscles either side of the spine, the column of bone a dip between them, and his breath slows against the skin.

Erik doesn’t react, he doesn’t even flinch a little at the sudden contact. It is as if Charles is not even there. He turns another page.

Charles groans quietly, letting his face slide to the side, his cheek lying against the hot skin of Erik’s back for a moment.

This magnificent man.

Charles is now kneeling behind him, just his cheek in contact with Erik, but he needs to touch, needs to feel him, worship the skin and muscle and bones – the man.

He leans back on his heels and looks at the tapering expanse of flesh before him. The blood is thundering in his ears, his heart racing.

Charles’s hands shake heavily as he lifts them carefully. He relishes this anticipation, this tension just before his fingers come into contact with the skin. It’s as if his fingertips are over-sensitive on his cold hands.

A helpless moan breaks from his lips as the heat from Erik’s skin spreads through the cold tips of his fingers into his hands.

Erik’s right shoulder blade slides casually under the skin as he calmly turns another page.

Charles marvels at such easy display of control. He moans helplessly – at this point he knows he is allowed to.

Erik ignores him.

All ten of his fingers now lie against Erik’s back, just under the shoulder blades on either side of his back. Charles’s cock is straining and painful, but he has to touch more, heighten the pleasure and the tension, heighten the pain in his groin just a little more, until Erik will be willing to take care of him. He does it so, so well. Charles marvels at that, too.

His whole body has broken out in an even sweat, the perspiration even forms little beads on the back of his cold hands, but Charles cannot think about that right now. He needs to touch, to kiss and lick.

He leans in, his head tilted slightly, so his tongue is the first and only thing that will come into contact with the subtle bumps of Erik’s spine.

When his taste buds are assaulted with the salty taste of skin, he moans, following the expelled sounds against the skin with his lips, finally letting them rest just between where his fingers are spread against Erik’s back.

Erik turns a page.

Charles moans again. He can’t help the minute, shifting movements of his hips, his cock seeking pressure and friction, but there is nothing but air and fabric and that is not enough. It’s never enough.

Charles groans, his fingers tightening against skin involuntarily, almost as in a massaging grip. He lifts his lips from Erik’s back, leaning his forehead against the spine again and looks downwards at where this magnificent back tapers down into narrow, but well muscled hips and buttocks.

Maybe he could…? He knows he shouldn’t, but the skin is so beautiful and it should not hide behind the cloth of trousers, however fine and well-tailored.

Charles lets his head slide against the curve of the spine downwards, just stopping short of the waistband, hesitating.

Erik clears his throat in a warning, disapproving sound.

Charles squeezes his eyes shut, whimpering lowly, but he dips his tongue out regardless. It slips just below the waistband, touching where the muscles of the buttocks meet the back.

Suddenly there is a heavy hand on his head, clutching at his hair in a grip of steel.

Charles’s head is yanked sideways, next to Erik’s hip, his left cheek bumping against Erik’s thigh. The hand in his hair does not gentle. If anything it pulls even more, tilting his head back, so Charles has to look up at Erik.

Erik has twisted slightly sideways – his only concession to Charles – so he can look down at him, he is still holding his book in one hand, the other still curled in Charles’s hair, pulling single hairs, making Charles’s scalp prickle uncomfortably.

“We’ve talked about this, Charles,” Erik says calmly, but Charles can hear the steely undertone and annoyance in his voice.

Charles whines helplessly, squeezing his eyes shut. He is so, so hard. His knees complain from being folded for such a long time, his back is tense and uncomfortably twisted in this position, his hands are still cold with tension, but he is so incredibly hard he feels light-headed.

He whines again.

“Fine,” Erik murmurs, as if he is indulging a petulant child, “Since, apparently, you cannot be trusted to be unsupervised behind me. That’s it for today concerning my back.”

Charles’s eyes prick with moisture at the disappointment he feels flowing off Erik in thick waves, mixing with his own. He loves Erik’s back, this magnificent, marvellous expanse of muscle and bones.

He whimpers pitifully, hoping against hope Erik will be gentled, will be swayed. But Erik is never swayed, he is cold and aloof and hard as tempered steel.

He does it so, _so_ incredibly well.

Erik pushes his hand still holding Charles’s hair away from his body and Charles has no choice but to follow the movement, his arms now hanging almost limply against his sides.

Erik lets go with a quiet sound of slight disgust and Charles crumbles to the floor next to the stool panting and mewling. His breaths comb through the thick weaves of the Persian rug, it smells slightly of dust. Charles closes his eyes, his focus turned inwards. His one leg is now angled in a way that his hard cock strains against it, his balls caught between his legs and it gives him the tiniest amount of friction and satisfaction.

He hears Erik move, but doesn’t dare open his eyes and look at him or make any move whatsoever. After a bit of rustling it grows quiet around him.

The tension is almost unbearable, but Charles does not dare move a muscle. He has been deposited on the floor and he will stay here for the moment until Erik takes care of him again, or his own curiosity will get the better of him and he will break a rule again. Whichever comes first.

He moans quietly against the rug.

He hears an impatient sound coming from Erik and when he opens his eyes there are two feet in fine brown leather shoes in his peripheral vision.

Charles moans helplessly, breathing in the dusty smell of the rug through his nose as his breath thunders out of him. His cock twitches against his leg and he is so desperate to touch it, he considers doing it and breaking a rule again. But he has been so good so far, he can manage. He hopes he can.

“C’mon, Charles,” Charles hears Erik’s mocking voice from above, “We both know you know what to do.”

“Yes,” Charles breathes, nodding against the rug. It doesn’t sound like him at all, so hissing and desperate and small. He moans again.

“None of that!” Erik growls dangerously. “Stop your whimpering and get on with it. I don’t have all day.”

Charles scrambles to his knees again as fast as he can with his erection trapped between the layers of clothes. He hisses sharply as the movement increases the pressure and rubs the rough fabric against the sensitive underside. He tips forwards helplessly, his arms almost not catching him, groaning pathetically.

Erik picks up his book again, but keeps an eye on Charles, supervising his movements.

Trembling fingers reach out to Erik’s shoes, untying the thin laces. Charles nearly cannot manage, his hands shake so much. He feels dizzy with pleasure and the pressure in his groin.

When he has the laces undone he sucks in a deep breath to collect himself somewhat and carefully lifts one foot with one hand, his other cupping the heel of the shoe, pulling gently until it slides over Erik’s heel.

Erik has so elegantly curved heels, so gracefully sloping ankles for a man, drawing the gaze and sometimes touching fingers upwards to his sharply defined masculine calves. Charles shudders.

Erik just makes his toes move inside his sock, reminding Charles that he has a task to finish. Apart from that Erik turns another page.

Charles sneaks a look up, gazing glassy-eyed at Erik for a moment. He sits on the stool, his back straight, but relaxed, both legs parallel to each other, holding his book of poetry in both hands relaxed in his lap, his eyes darting regularly and unhurried over the page.

Charles is in awe.

He finishes with the second shoe, starting with trembling fingers on the beige socks. Charles has to slide up the trouser leg from Erik’s calves to reach the elastic of his socks, high up on his lower leg. He shudders, has to hold himself back, not to touch too much. He is not allowed to yet, he knows this and yet it is temptation right there, calling to him, making searing heat bloom up his spine. His cock twitches. Charles ignores it as best as he can, focusing.

He slides both socks down Erik’s lower legs, again carefully sliding them over his heels and rolling them up reverently to put them neatly into the shoes next to him.

When he is done, he just sits there in front of Erik, looking mesmerised at the long feet and toes, the barely visible naked ankle vanishing under the charcoal grey trousers.

“You are slow today,” Erik comments not unkindly, but Charles feels hot heat shoot into his face at the gentle reprimand.

He quickly leans down, brushing his nose against the arch of one foot. The blond hairs there tickle his face. He moans breathlessly against the instep, letting his lips trail gently over the skin.

He hears the rustle of another page being turned and shudders.

Charles slowly works his lips up the ankle, stopping just where the naked skin slopes into the trouser leg and waits.

“You may,” Erik says absentmindedly, his voice suggests he is only half paying attention. Charles feels his cock tighten at the dismissive tone. He clamps his legs tighter together, trapping his balls between his thighs hard, relishing the pain. The sharp spike of throbbing pressure makes this easier to bear. He cannot lose focus. Not now, not when Erik is taking such good care of him.

He does care so well.

Charles carefully rucks up the grey fabric of the trousers, following the upwards movement with his lips. They graze against the wiry, blond hair of Erik’s leg and he moans against the skin, imagining his breath getting trapped there. So close against the skin, moistening it. His breath on Erik’s skin, seeping into it forever.

At the knee he cannot move the fabric any higher, but he knows what to do. He just lifts his head a little, his lips trailing over the fabric now, his cheeks brushing against the inner side of Erik’s knees on either side.

His whole body is trembling now. He can’t help it. The muscles of his arse quiver and shake from keeping him leaning forwards from his knees, without bracing his weight. His breath is harsh now, coming in small husky-rough pants.

Even the pressure of his thighs keeping his balls trapped between them is not enough to hold back on the pleasure. He needs to touch himself, he needs to come. His cock is throbbing painfully. He _needs_ to touch.

His hand snakes down between his legs secretly, hoping Erik won’t notice. Charles knows he is not supposed to, but he is so hard, so horny, so far gone, he just _wantswantswants_.

Suddenly Erik’s toes curl into his upper thigh, the digits grabbing the flesh underneath the trouser leg as if they are fingers, squeezing painfully, the short nails digging in.

Charles gasps and freezes, his hand already trapped in his trousers, between the fabric and the hot, flushed skin of his cock. He does not dare to look up at Erik, just breathes raggedly through his open mouth, waiting for whatever may come.

“Charles,” Erik admonishes gently, but his voice is cold, “You only need to ask.”

Charles squeezes his eye shut, commanding his hand to stay still, to not cup his own flesh, although he so desperately wants to. He can feel his own heartbeat making his cock twitch against the palm of his hand rhythmically.

“You know this, Charles,” Erik reminds him with a tad of exasperated annoyance and Charles nods meekly in answer. Erik just waits, his toes still curled into Charles’s upper thigh as a reminder.

“Please,” Charles whispers. His voice is hoarse and strained, his throat dry and it feels too tight.

“That’s not enough, Charles, you know that.” Erik turns another page.

Charles swallows before he thinks he is able to speak again. “Please, _Erik_. Please make me come.”

Erik does it so well.

With an irritated sigh Erik lets his toes uncurl and pushes the ball of his foot against where Charles’s hand is trapped in his trousers.

Charles groans in total abandonment at the sudden pressure of his own hand being pushed against his cock. He doubles over with pleasure, his cheek crushed against Erik’s knee and just breaths through it. One more slide of Erik’s foot against the back of his trouser clad hand and he will come.

Finally, finally.

And Erik does it so well.

He pushes against Charles hard, wiggling his toes, the ball of his foot rubbing against the crotch of Charles’s trouser.

Charles comes in a blinding rush, keening hoarsely against Erik’s knee, shuddering and shaking, feeling the wetness spread in his trousers, against his hand. He moans and shakes still kneeling in front of Erik, finally sagging against his legs fully, tiny after shocks wracking his frame.

Charles only comes back to himself slowly, guided by a gentle hand cradling through his hair. He hums in contented pleasure at the caring touch.

Erik does it so, _so_ well.

Charles feels Erik’s legs move against his cheek and lifts his head, his eyes heavy lidded and contentedly tired.

Erik shifts, sliding down from the stool, taking Charles’s head between his big, wonderful hands and kisses him gently.

“Thank you,” Charles mumbles uncoordinated against Erik’s lips.

“God, Charles, you are so wonderful,” Erik murmurs softly back, “Thank _you_.”

Erik just kisses him, gentle caresses of lips against Charles’s own, over his face, while his arms cradle Charles in a gentle embrace. Charles lets his head rest against Erik’s shoulder, his head tucked under Erik’s chin.

“Which poems were your reading?” Charles asks sleepily.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Erik answers with an amused huff.

_And end its being in the heart…_

~x~

**Author's Note:**

> I usually don't ask for comments...I've never before written a BDSM fic and I realy like to hear what you think.


End file.
